


𝕐𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 ℝ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝔹𝕪 𝕄𝕖

by Baguette_Me_Not



Series: Cαɳ Yσυ Hҽαɾ Tԋҽ Oƈҽαɳ Fɾσɱ Sραƈҽ? [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous dreams, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, It's not happy hours here, Post-Canon, Season/Series 08, See with tags like that you get what I'm saying, fluff until it's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baguette_Me_Not/pseuds/Baguette_Me_Not
Summary: It’s beautiful, he thinks. The perfect evening for a picnic.
Relationships: Allura/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Cαɳ Yσυ Hҽαɾ Tԋҽ Oƈҽαɳ Fɾσɱ Sραƈҽ? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691800
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	𝕐𝕠𝕦’𝕣𝕖 ℝ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝔹𝕪 𝕄𝕖

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘, 

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘, 

𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜, 

𝙾𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜, 

𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 

~ 𝚁𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚡

* * *

The field is the same as always.

Juniberries as far as the eye could see, dazzling under the steadily dipping glow of the sun. Oranges and yellows, soft halos of light against the pinks of petals, a sunset scene he would just as easily have found hanging from his abuela’s old cottage (as bittersweet a memory her home was.) It’s stunning, the peace and serenity of it all, saturated in evening light. _But not as much as her_.

She’s there waiting for him, atop the hill, under the willow’s drooping branches, a smile gracing her lips as she turns towards him. The breeze manages to catch her hair _just right_ , snowfall in the heat of the summer, a perfect vision of beauty. Gorgeous to the artist who painted her on the canvas of reality, gorgeous to him.

Sunlight caught in her smile melts his heart as he reaches her. For once she looks so serene, so _content_ as if all's right with the world. And perhaps, with a smile like that, it just is. For once she’s allowed to be herself, no titles, no responsibilities, she’s-

“Allura.”

“ _Lance_ ,” She says, light and lilting, butter on the tongue, stretches his name like so, vowels enunciated with all the finesse of a posh person — one he so desperately loves, “What’s in the basket?”

Blinks. Yes. He’s brought a picnic basket, just as they planned, stuffed with his mother’s fresh goods. Lance may have even attempted to get in the kitchen himself, but he’s no Hunk — this he knows — and may need a few pointers from the guy before he makes that kind leap on a date. For now, sharing the food he grew up on is enough, at least, _he hopes so_.

“Thought it was high time you tried some classic Serrano garlic knots,” He dumps the basket on the picnic blanket, slides up next to her with a playful grin, “ _And_ we were due a sequel to that date of ours.”

“It _has_ been a while,” She laughs, delicate and well mannered, all princessy and regal from a girl raised of royal blood, taught expectations and diplomacy, when and where not to put all seventeen different forks on the table — _distinctly Allura_. “From the buildup you’ve given these knots, I’ll be highly disappointed if I don’t enjoy them.”

“Oh trust me, you will.” Lance adds a wink for good measure. “But if you don’t, there’s always the Pulpeta. Basically meatloaf, nothing Hunk hasn’t made before. Just less _‘surprise’_ ingredients. _Oh,_ can’t forget there’s a flan. It’s sweet — _just like you_.”

The roll of Allura’s eyes is playful, not irritated or unimpressed as she had been all that time ago, desperate for anyone’s company but his. They’ve grown a lot since then, two teens in a war, fighting for the freedom of an entire universe. Her strength and determination an inspiration for him to find his best self, a person he wanted to be, a person worthy for her. Long have the days passed since she was merely a pretty face, a title and a girl with an apparent distaste for rounded ears.

(But look how that’s ended up.)

“As sweet as me? I suppose I’ll have to be the judge of that,” She leans forward and flips the wicker lid back. Lifts it gently as one would hold a vase, and reaches in for the tupperware, all neatly packed by him not a moment ago. “Hmm… the knots, right? What are they tying together?”

“This date, apparently.” Lance watches on, avid and keen as she pulls open the lid. Something holds him back, refraining from doing the same. “ _Sooo_ what’s your verdict?”

“My verdict is,” She makes a point of scrunching up her face, as if this were some crucial decision making at play, a battle plan perhaps with all this suspense, “Garlic. Lots of garlic… _I assume._ Is that what I’m tasting?”

“Yeah, that’ll be the garlic.” It registers with him that this may well be the first time she’s ever tried the herb, wasn’t exactly known to grow in space. The same can’t be said for weeds, a complete menace across the cosmos, _somehow_. “Nice?”

“Considering I’m taking another one, that is a distinct yes.”

“See, what’d I tell you?” Mamá’s cooking has a history for being a hit with newcomers. Now, he supposes, alien princesses can be added to the ever growing list. “I’ll remember to send your compliments to the chef.”

“Please do.” She takes another bite, swallows. “Your mother is absolutely wonderful.” 

High praise indeed, one he can’t help but preen himself on. Not for his mother’s work _of course that’s all her_ , but for how they get on. As far as anyone else is concerned, Allura’s a member of the family. She’s _welcome_ , forever and always.

“She’d love that, you know? They love you here.” Lance savours her adoring gaze, the sparkle of her eyes no metaphor, a glimmer of hope and affection rooted deep within. It’s like staring into the depths of a nebula, lost, _oh so lost_ amongst the fiery light, but very much at home amongst the stars that hang there. They say eyes are the window to the soul, and, if that’s the case, he’s never known a soul more beautiful.

Allura hums, thoughtful, as she leans into him, silken hair brushing against the crook of his neck. Often, when it came to her, Lance found actions spoke louder than words, her hand on his shoulder or a kiss on the cheek all he needed for confirmation. Her eyes say it all. So it strikes through his heart as he catches the words ‘I love _you_ ,’ barely a whisper under her breath, faint, something he can easily dismiss as the wind, a secret _that wasn’t really a secret_ shared between the two. 

Quiznack, he’s probably red all the way to the ear by now, no way can she be unaware of how much his skin heats up. But she lays there, unassuming, or (the more realistic answer here) in perfect understanding and smug with the knowledge that she can turn Loverboy Lance into a cherry tomato with three simple words.

(Except they’re not — _are they_ — because those silly little words mean the world. The universe. Every single universe out there.)

“I,” Lance swallows, careful to keep his voice under control. His heart swells, beats at about a thousand times an hour that he’s fairly certain this girl’s going to give him a heart attack. But he just. Doesn’t care. At all. Because right now, Allura’s snuggled up next to him, and quite honestly? The universe can’t give him a sweeter deal than this. When did he get so lucky? “Oh man, _quiznack_ , wow. If you told me three years ago that I’d be hearing you say _that_ , I would’ve said you were crazy.”

Allura shifts her head, rolls it so she’s staring up at him, catching Lance off guard from how pink her cheeks were, _and not just from the glowing_ (score one for Lancey Lance.) “What, have I finally gotten you speechless?”

“You took my breath away the moment I saw you.” And it’s — unsurprisingly here — not a far stretch from the truth. In his defence, it’s not as if princesses fell from trees, you know. “But it’s not like you can resist my charms either.”

Allura reaches out, flicks a stray strand of his hair and fixes him with a practiced expression, dead serious if not for the telltale mischievous spark she held. “Charms? What charms?”

“Hey!” Lance huffs, puffs up in mock defence with just a twinge of insult added into the mix, “I’ve broken hearts with this face!”

“Poor girls.” It could be accounted for as teasing if it wasn’t for her more sullen addition, Allura’s sparkle dulling just a fragment. “No one wants to go through heartbreak.”

This voice Lance is acquainted with. Remembers from the times spent in their lions, recently down a certain castle. The guilt, he knows she still has it, buried deep within her mask of guarded expressions. A betrayal that tore through her, scars so deep that it’s sheer determination, resilience and willpower that have kept her standing. It breaks him, what Lotor did to Allura, and he wishes for nothing more than to rip out the pain and kiss it goodbye. But wounds aren’t that easy to heal. He knows.

“I… yeah. It sucks.” Lance drops back into the role he’s tried so hard to fill, ‘trying’ being the key word here considering _sucks_ is a far off cry from _the worst thing in existence_. Internally, his conscience is already taking the run up — about a marathon’s worth of run ups — to give him the kick he deserves for bringing this up in the first place. Yet it’s too late to back out now. “With Lotor, and you, and what he did. It’s been a lot.”

“ _We’ve_ been through a lot.” Allura says, completely right. Both themselves — and the team included — have been through the blender. It’s a wonder they are all still here, intact, in one piece.

“ _But_.” Lance feels as if they’ve earned a ‘but’ in here, or else this date is going to end in depression. Which, on the perfect date criteria, does not belong even remotely at the top. “We’ve made it through! Ridden cows through shopping centres, _which was awesome_ , battled fuzzy purple people, also awesome _but_ a bit terrifying. Holy crow, I even _died and wore it off_ — thanks by the way — and if we can make it through that? We can take any challenge that comes at us.”

“Just don’t do that again,” Allura adds with a frown, in case he gets any ideas. Pfft, _please,_ as if he anywhere near remotely wants to go back to _that_ anytime soon. He’s cheated death once, once too many. The next time? He’s a bad feeling he won’t be so lucky, that is, if it’s not by the side of the woman he loves.

“Okay, okay. If the princess says so. I mean, it’s not as if Kaltenacker enjoyed being ridden by a bunch of teens.” With her pout of ‘ _not what I meant_ ’, he’s struck by something. “The same could be said for you too. Think of all those hero parades I missed out on because…” Lance furrows his brow, creases it as he digs out his train of thought from where it steadily recedes within his mind. “You... were gone. But it’s okay now, right? Because we got you back. You’re here now, you’re here. Because you... we... I... uh.”

Lance grinds to a halt, immediately aware of how fast paced his words were travelling, a rising crescendo of panic until the very last note. Their reunion, the time Allura came back to them, reunited in his arms. It should have been a momentous occasion, he should remember the others crowding around her, and joy, and sobbing into the nook of her neck until there were no more tears left to cry. Instead, he can’t recollect, well, _anything_.

He pulls himself away from her touch, slinks like a child who’s been caught red handed, guilt and embarrassment tugging him. Lance can’t simply _forget_ . Who forgets the love of their life waltzing back from the unknown as if it was nothing? _Who does that_? What kind of terrible person is he?

Lance fesses up anyway, phrases it the way one starts a joke, with a laugh, even if shaky — it’s something he’s good at doing. If he treats that way, maybe it’ll hurt less, maybe _she’ll_ be hurt less. “Heh, _this,_ this is going to sound dumb or something.”

“You’re not dumb,” Allura says, soft but reprimanding all the same, because _of course she does._ Of course she’s thinking of someone else when he’s the one who’s done _her_ a great injustice.

“Thanks ‘Lura, but this, this should have been emotional right? The thing is…” Lance winces. Better out in the open air than in. “It’s funny but... I don’t _remember_ how you... came back.”

He wants a scowl, a ‘ _how could you_ ’, a flicker of hurt so his inner self deprecating demons could hurt too knowing he was the one to put it there. 

Allura’s smile is nothing short of sad. Which, in itself should make sense, but _he reads people_ . Knows the shift of a brow or twitch of an eye. Reads it like an open book in your local library. There’s something in her expression that nags at him, catches Lance off guard like a fly to a venus flytrap. It’s in on a secret, sage in a way he could only expect of her if she lived through the very ten thousand years she slumbered. Allura’s sad, not for herself, but for _him._

Lance wants to hold her, assure her _he’s okay, nothing’s wrong, there’s no need to be sad._ For some reason, the words he found so easy don’t come. There’s just a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, left from the scent juniberries pressing down on the air. They're instantly sweet, too sweet, far too sweet, sickly until they’re not. A bitter residue, the coughing and spluttering left over from that overpowering perfume your aunt can’t help but be addicted to.

_When did it get so difficult to breathe_?

“...How did we get here again?” Lance asks instead, the laughter in his voice is nervous, borderline hysterical, on the verge of uncovering what he wishes would stay buried. He wants to deny it, oh how he wishes he could, but when the truth is so glaringly obvious it’s hard not to point fingers.

There’s a fog in his head, and the weather forecast predicts all clear skies.

He looks around, dizzying as he takes in nothing but flowers, flowers and more flowers. Lance faintly remembers there being a tree here earlier. And a basket. A blanket too. “How did _I_ get here? How did _you_ get here? How even _are you_ here?” By all means she should have returned home to them, safe and sound.

Unless she... didn’t.

Unless she never really came back to them at all.

The urge to reach out to Allura returns, slams into him with all the weight of a bus, double decker, full force, _bam_. It’s not shame that pulls him back this time, nor is it a leaden tongue. Lance feels if he reaches out, she’ll dissolve under his touch, like dandelion seeds in the wind. Beautiful the way a burning empire was.

Allura takes none of this. She laces his hand in her own. It’s meant to be assuring, communicating across that _she’s here_ and _it’s okay_. But how could it be when they both know those two promises are lies? The truth is a foriegn country, illusions hiding in plain sight — through words and actions, people and trees.

“Are you real?” It’s not as loud or hysterical as the others. Quite the opposite. He’s clinging onto his last hope here, voice so at one with the breeze it’s a wonder she’s able to hear any of it. But this is what needs asking the most. It’s what all else has led up to, otherwise how can reality feel too good to be true unless given the exception that it’s not reality at all?

“Am I?” And it’s not fair what she says, Allura’s answering his questions with even more questions. Couldn’t life find it deep within its sick twisted heart to be kind for once, to lay it out flat and do away with all this air of mystery? Apparently, the answer is a firm _no_. “Am I real enough to you?”

“I…” Lance’s throat sticks. “I don’t know.”

It isn’t something he could know, this is something he mulled over, lay awake for hours at time wondering, wishing, _waiting for_ . Her last words became a sort of mantra, maybe he’ll even go as far as calling it a second conscience, a hopeful thought he’d cling to in the worst of times. _I’ll always be with you._

If only it were true.

“Oh Lance.” Her posh accent makes his chest ache, even as his name passes her lips like a lullaby. Allura places her free remaining hand — the one not gently caressing his own — on his heart, warm where he felt himself freeze. “I’m in here.”

“And.” Both hands move to his temples, chocolate on caramel skin. “In here.”

“In… my head?” Lance manages weakly. His eyes flick upwards, about as close as looking into his own head he was going to get. Last he checked, it’s just him and his inner demons, having the time of their lives in there.

Allura shakes her head, though her correction is not unkind. “In your _memories_. As long as you live, so does a piece of me. All those memories, all of those times we shared, the ones we talked about, they’re all in here, Lance. You just have to look.”

“But how will I make more memories Allura? _I don’t want this to end_ !” She can stay, him and her, just as they were. Take a second chance. They could do this, it could work and he wouldn’t have to feel so… _alone_ . “I wish… I wish so much had happened… I wanted to take you to Varadero, I wanted you to try the knots… I wanted– _I wanted so much_. Was it really too much to ask?”

He can’t tell when Allura brought her arms around him, pulled Lance in close as tears bespeckle his eyes. But she does, gives him a shoulder to cry on as he clings to her tighter, letting her go for a moment would be letting her go for a lifetime. Dios, he can’t imagine going back to a life without her. Living but not really. Waiting on a hand to hold that’ll never really come.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Lance can’t see Allura’s face, not from where he is, not through the pooling tears that obscure his vision through giant droplets. The very fabric of reality is a great ocean, crashing down all around him, rippling from the periphery of his own vision, outwards until it becomes nothing but a blotchy, watery mess of running colours. An abstract artist will call this a masterpiece, he calls it Hell. Yet, Lance can feel the sigh in Allura’s shoulders, all the way through to the hand that runs through his hair. Gentle, caressing, when he knows what lies within. The fire, the hurt and the loss, a storm that just wants to break down alongside of him. Where they can be a mess, but messes _together_ , a whirlwind of pain clinging to one another for comfort.

Allura doesn’t. Her colours stay intact where his blur. Composed, regal, and very much used to it. A part of him wonders if this is even her.

It’s a silly thought.

“I’m not myself without you. _I need you_. _We all need you._ ” His throat burns with white hot intensity, _he burns_ , and the flames dry his tears, even if for a second. Lance squeezes his eyes tight. He can’t trust his own vision anymore. “ _Please._ ”

“You’re still the same you,” She murmurs into his ear, “Maybe broken, maybe dented, but you are never going to stop being you. The boy from Cuba I love is still in there. Find yourself. _Remember that for me and live your life for you_.” Regret leaks into what she says next. “I’m so sorry our paths must diverge from here. But… say hello to Coran for me, will you? Tell him not to blame himself.”

Lance wants to beg, to shout ‘ _screw you_ ’ over and over to the universe until he can shout nothing more, because _quiznack_ if he doesn’t have a bone to pick with that metaphysical entity. Wants to ask why she gave him those stubbornly glowing altean marks and if there’s a way he can reach out, be the one to say ‘ _no_ ’ to life for once and bring her back.

So this time, he doesn’t hold back. Screams and cries in words raw, so raw that the customer would have to complain to the chef that their steak is _bleeding_ and _did they ever cook this thing at all_? Everything's coming straight from his core, his very soul, the quintessence that defines his very being. And oh how his heart sings, a yearning tune, so heartfelt and sorrowful it would cause even the soulless shed tears, the unlucky bystanders they are. 

But as the sun sets, and the flower petals darken, there’s nothing left but a blue boy crying in the cast shadow of moonlight. Marks aglow, in the arms of no one.

Alone.

_Again._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> … I swear I’m actually writing a fix-it. For now, have this, uh, ‘break-it’ fic you never wanted?


End file.
